


money shot

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dick Pics, Dirty Talk, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: “Who died and made you King of the Dick Pic?” Kaner says indignantly, heat rising in his voice. “I was blessed with a huge fucking dick, bud, and the pic shows it—what else is there?”Jonny sighs. “Angles. Lighting.Artistry. You could have the fucking Sistine Chapel of dicks and still blow your chances by taking a shitty dick pic. Which yours was.”(After Kaner accidentally sexts Jonny, he takes it upon himself to teach Kaner the art of taking a good dick pic. It goes about as well as you'd think.)
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 32
Kudos: 254





	money shot

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is hands down the silliest thing I've ever written—it was supposed to be 5k max, but here we are 12.7k words later. A huge, huge thanks to Dauhu and thathockey for being the greatest cheerleaders in the world and reacting with so much love and enthusiasm as I wrote this fic—I legitimately could not have written this without you guys. V, your voice notes literally make my entire week—I'm so grateful to have a friend that responds to my work with such thought and care. M, I will forever cherish your constant support and incredible insight—you made this fic so much better, and I am so thankful for your help. I love you guys very much.

Jonny’s having a perfectly normal Saturday night—settled into his sofa, watching _Linder’s Fishing Edge_ with the lights on low _._ Nursing one of his craft beers that the guys make fun of him for because they have absolutely _no_ fucking taste. 

He even put out one of those giant candles, because _yeah,_ the scent of an Evergreen Forest calms his psyche, what about it? Point is, Jonny’s doing great. He’s fan-fucking- _tastic_. 

So when he opens Kaner’s text and promptly chokes on his beer, he can’t help but feel really fucking pissed.

Kaner’s dick is on his screen, jutting out loud and proud.

Jonny throws his phone down in disgust.

What. The. Fuck. 

A few seconds pass, and his phone pings again.

Jonny picks it up gingerly, like it’s a bomb that needs defusing.

He hazards a glance.

_You wanna come over and suck it?_

Fucking hell, Kaner. 

He hits the call button, face slipping into a full-blown scowl. 

“Sup, Taze?” Kaner slurs. There’s a punchy bass line pulsing in the background, punctuated by a cacophony of voices.

“Outside, _now,_ ” Jonny commands. “We need to talk.”

Maybe it’s because of the alcohol buzzing through his veins, but Kaner doesn’t put up a fight. There’s the sound of a door opening and closing, and then—blissful silence. 

“Hey,” Kaner says, dragging out the vowel slow and low, finishing on a sigh that fogs up the line with breathy static. Jonny can see it—the goofy smile stretching his lips wide, the sluggish, heavy blinks, eyes slitted open. 

“Kaner,” Jonny says a little sharp, a little stern. He needs to break through the haze. “Why the _fuck_ is there a picture of your dick on my phone right now?”

“What?”

“Check your texts,” Jonny grits out, hand tightening his grip on his phone.

A few moments go by, and then there’s a sharp exhale, followed by a rolling, hiccuping laugh. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ Taze, I’m sorry—”

It’s choked off, gasps of amusement growing louder. 

“I meant to send that to Joanna.”

Another snort.

“Joanna?” Jonny echoes.

“Yeah, just a girl I’m talking to. Sorry,” Kaner adds again, casual tone devolving into uneven snickers. 

“First of all, I’m going to have to fucking bleach my brain, so thanks for that,” Jonny says. “ _Second_ of all, if you even want a fraction of a chance of getting laid, don’t send that fucking picture.”

There’s an aborted little sound from the other side before the line goes silent. 

“What do you mean?” Kaner says cautiously, a hint of mulish defiance edging into his voice. 

“Dick pics are tricky, Kaner,” Jonny says testily, helplessly feeling himself slip into lecture-mode. “First of all, they’re _rarely_ welcome, so when they are—you’ve got to use a little fucking finesse.”

There was no response but deep, even breathing.

“Your dick pic? Bad,” Jonny says bluntly, hoping his words are simple and pointed enough to permeate the thick cloud of intoxication plugging up Kaner’s mind. “She won’t fuck you if you send that.”

“Who died and made you King of the Dick Pic?” Kaner says indignantly, heat rising in his voice. “I was blessed with a huge fucking dick, bud, and the pic shows it—what else is there?”

Jonny sighs. “Angles. Lighting. _Artistry._ You could have the fucking Sistine Chapel of dicks and still blow your chances by taking a shitty dick pic. Which yours was.”

Jonny can practically hear the shock building and coalescing into drunken outrage.

“Didn’t realize you took the Art of Sexting with that GE at UND,” Kaner grouses into the phone. “I’m gonna send that picture to Joanna, and I’m gonna get my dick sucked while you watch whatever sad fishing show is on Netflix.”

Well, Jonny tried. 

“Don’t come crying to me when you end up dragging your drunk ass back to your apartment, sad and alone,” he says cheerfully. 

“Asshole,” Kaner says eloquently before the line cuts out. 

_That_ was going to go well.

* * *

Two hours later, Jonny gets another text from Kaner. 

_Wtf she nvr responded?? My dick is so sick tho :(_

Ha. Called it. 

* * *

Kaner hides his face in his hands the second he sees Jonny the next morning in the locker room, which is kind of awesome. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, voice muffled. His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual, and his socks are two different colors. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Jonny points out, tamping down on a grin as he drops his stuff in front of his stall. 

Kaner removes his hands from his face and shoots him a glare. “Yes you did. With your eyebrows. They’re doing that _thing._ ”

“My eyebrows can talk?”

“They’re judging me,” Kaner insists, giving Jonny’s eyebrows a dirty look. 

Jonny snorts. “Sounds like you’re projecting, bud.”

And then Kaner stares down at his junk, all _sadly_ and shit. “Maybe they _should_ judge me,” he says morosely. “I have a shitty dick.”

Jonny whips his head around quickly to see if anyone else heard that. “Er, are you still drunk?” Jonny asks carefully, because dick-angst or not, throwing out that kind of grade-A chirping material seems like a pretty fucking stupid thing to do in the middle of a locker room that has Patrick Sharp prowling about. 

Kaner immediately bristles. “Huh? What the fuck? _No_ ,” he says immediately. 

“Okay, okay,” Jonny says.“You don’t have, um, a shitty dick,” he says in what he hopes is a consoling voice despite the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him, because Kaner looks legitimately bummed out about the prospect of having a sub-par package. 

Kaner looks at him suspiciously. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I swear!” Jonny protests. Kaner’s dick pic flashes through his mind unbidden. The picture was _awful_ , all blurry with garbage angles and lighting, but—Kaner’s dick itself wasn’t the problem. Probably. Like there was nothing outwardly _wrong_ with it or anything. From what Jonny could tell. 

“I told you, you just have to learn how to take a good picture. It’s like, an art. And it takes practice. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jonny says, belatedly realizing that he was totally slipping into his “Captain” voice. While giving Kaner a pep talk about his dick. Jesus. 

Kaner still doesn’t look convinced. “I really liked her,” he says wistfully. “She had great tits. Or great tit pics. Whatever.”

“Her loss, bud,” Jonny says, wondering how the fuck he got here, comforting Kaner about his dick when he totally woke up this morning with a plan to chirp him into the next century. 

Kaner sighs. “I guess,” he says, but he looks marginally less like a kicked puppy, so Jonny counts that as a win. And then he brightens. “Hey, wanna see this hilarious video of a baby monkey riding a pig?” Kaner says, already reaching for his phone, thankfully bringing an end to any and all dick-related discourse. 

Thank fuck _that’s_ over. 

* * *

“So, like, how do you know so much about dick pics anyway, Mr. Monogamy?” Kaner asks suddenly, causing Jonny’s controller to jerk in his hands. He watches Koopa Troopa spin out of control and end up in the lake. Jonny eyes Kaner cautiously. He’s still playing, slumped back onto the couch, tone so casual that Jonny can’t help but feel like this is something that Kaner’s been sitting on instead of some random thought that popped into his head. 

“Katie liked them,” he says finally, shrugging. She’d brought it up a few months into their relationship, claiming it would ‘spice things up.’ Once Jonny got past the mortifying fact that his four month-old relationship had apparently already gone stale, he acquiesced. 

He felt like a bit of a dickhead at first, pausing mid-jerk off to snap a picture of his junk, but when it became clear she was really into it, Jonny did what he does best when presented with a new challenge: he put his all into it. 

He spent hours pouring over articles and reddit threads, finding his angles and learning about various sources of light, practicing until he was taking dick pics worthy of being published in one of those artsy hipster magazines they had at his favorite overpriced coffee shop. By the end, he’d actually kind of started to enjoy himself, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone. It turned out his new skill was learned in vain, though, because Katie dumped him a few months later anyway, citing, understandably, his busy schedule and rather more bizarrely, his “depressing taste in take out.” 

“Hmm,” Kaner hums noncommittally. “You said something about lighting, right? And angles or some shit?” Jonny stares at him. 

“Kaner, are you asking me to teach you how to take a dick pic?” he asks, unable to help a smirk from curling onto his face when Kaner goes bright pink. 

“ _No_ , fuckface,” Kaner scowls. “Just. Like. I guess I wouldn’t mind some advice, or whatever. Maybe.” 

Jonny grins. “Always happy to help a friend in need,” he says, not doing a great job of keeping the smugness out of his voice, mostly because he doesn’t try very hard. 

Kaner groans, punching him in the arm, which he probably deserves. “You are _not_ allowed to be an ass about this.”

Jonny snickers. “What are you going to do about it, send me shitty dick pics until I cry about your lack of artistic sense?”

Kaner gets a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Well, actually…” he says, trailing off and fishing his phone out of his pocket. And that’s all the warning Jonny gets before that picture of Kaner’s dick is getting shoved in his face. 

“Gah,” Jonny squeaks, almost falling off the couch when he springs back from the screen. It’s not his proudest moment. “What the fuck, Kaner, put that away!” he says, voice cracking. 

Kaner, distressingly, does _not_ put the picture away, continuing to wave the screen in front of Jonny’s face. “How are you supposed to help me if you won’t look?” he points out. “I need critique, man. Feedback. Constructive criticism.” The worst part is that Kaner looks completely _earnest_ , like he’s genuinely waiting for Jonny to give him a detailed breakdown on the Ten Greatest Dick Pic Sins or whatever. 

Jonny is really, really starting to regret being a good friend. “Okay I’ve looked,” he says hastily, shoving the screen out of his face. Not that it makes much of a difference, because at this point, the damn picture is burned into his brain. “Well, first of all, you might want to try not taking it in the middle of a dirty bathroom stall.”

Kaner frowns. “She sent me a picture while I was out, what the hell was I supposed to do?” 

Jonny rolls his eyes. Amateur. “That’s why you take them at home under proper conditions and have them ready,” he explains patiently. 

Kaner wrinkles his nose. “That seems like a _ton_ of work, what the hell?” Jonny shrugs.

“You asked, I answered.”

Kaner groans. “Ugh, fine. Take them ahead of time, got it.” He snorts. “Shoulda known you’d turn taking dick pics into a fucking homework assignment.”

“Welcome to Dick Pic Academy,” Jonny jokes and then pauses, face twisting into a frown. “Ew. I hate my life. You owe me big time for this, Kaner.” 

Kaner waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be the best student you’ll ever have,” he says with a saucy wink. 

Ugh. 

* * *

Jonny’s not expecting it when it comes. Maybe he should by now, but he doesn’t. So when he opens the text and chokes on his lemon water, Jonny makes some very serious promises to himself. 

1) No more opening texts from Kaner while he’s eating or drinking. 2) No more opening texts from Kaner in public or around other people, because Seabs is looking at him like he sprouted another head. 3) Maybe he should get Kaner his own special ringtone. Like, the _Jaws_ theme song maybe, something to convey the appropriate amount of terror at receiving an unsolicited dick pic in the middle of the day at a busy restaurant. 

Jonny hastily closes out of the text. “You okay, bud?” Seabs asks, eyeing Jonny’s now water-stained shirt. 

“Yup,” Jonny says weakly. “Just, uh, funny text from my mom,” he lies, and Seabs thankfully doesn’t push it. 

When Jonny gets home, he realizes that he has another text from Kaner. 

_hellooo feedback pls??_

He thunks his head on the counter. What did he do to deserve this? Fuck, it was the donuts, wasn’t it? Those half-a-dozen chocolate-covered, delicious proverbial nails-in-the-coffin that he’d impulse purchased along with his regular Nitro Cold Brew last week? Some kind of divine punishment for breaking his meal plan. And now the Hockey Gods are exacting their wrath by forcing him to play a fucked up version of Jack-in-the-Box with Kaner’s dick, wherein the box is Jonny’s phone. Jonny opens his freezer and eyes the lone pint of Ben and Jerry’s tucked in the back corner and promptly throws it in the trash—no use in tempting fate again.

He calls Kaner. 

“What the fuck, Kaner?” Jonny says flatly when Kaner picks up. There are chewing sounds on the other end of the line.

“Oh are we doing like a whole verbal critique-type deal instead of a written one? I can dig that,” Kaner says, swallowing, punctuating the end of his sentence with a lip smack. 

“Wh—no, we’re not doing a _‘verbal critique’_ ,” Jonny snaps. “You can’t just send me pictures of your dick in the middle of the day—I almost choked on my water and _died_ , asshole.” 

“Aw, what’s the matter Taze? Did I offend your poor little virgin eyes?” Kaner asks sweetly, smirk coming through loud and clear even through the phone. “Does your hand hurt from clutching at your pearls?”

“Fuck off,” Jonny scowls, furious at the way Kaner is making his face go warm in embarrassment even though his position of not wanting to see his buddy’s dick in high resolution in broad daylight is perfectly reasonable. “What the fuck do you want from me? A scoring rubric? With subcategories? A ten-point breakdown with descriptions?”

“You know the whole ‘scathing sarcasm’ thing you’re going for doesn’t really work when you just described the most _you_ thing ever, right?” Kaner points out cheerfully. “How about you just take a look and give me a yes or a no?” 

Jonny pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t belie— _fine,_ you gigantic pain in my ass, I’ll look at your fucking dick pic.” Jonny switches Kaner to speakerphone and pulls up his texts. There’s this weird pit of dread in his stomach, like the feeling he used to get before taking a math test in middle school. Except in this case he’s administering the test instead. Kind of. Ugh. 

With a few taps, the picture is there on his screen. Jonny stares. “Tazer?” Kaner’s voice warbles out from the speaker. “Are you there? 

It’s kind of an existential question. Jonny’s _there_ , yeah—standing in his kitchen, phone in hand. Mentally, he thinks he’s on a different plane of existence. After the shock wears off, though, Jonny’s brain finally starts processing the picture. Kaner can follow basic directions, at least. He’s definitely at home in the picture—in his bathroom, to be specific. Jonny recognizes the edge of Kaner’s red bath mat peeking out from under—well. That’s about where the positives end though. 

“How’d we do, Dr. Dick Pic? Passable?” Kaner says, interrupting Jonny’s thoughts. 

If Jonny were a wise man, he’d say yes. Yes Kaner, wonderful dick pic. Primo quality art right there. Then Kaner would leave him alone and he wouldn’t have to be worried about being dick-pic bombed while he’s innocently eating a salad in the middle of the day.

But— 

“D. No, D- _._ ” Jonny finds himself saying instead. 

_Fuck me_.

There’s an indignant squawk from the other side of the line. “I took the pic at home like you said!”

“And that’s the only reason why it isn’t an F.” Jonny frowns. “Kaner, your dick is blurry, the angle is awful, and when I said ‘take your pictures at home instead of in a dirty bathroom stall’ I didn’t mean take them in _your_ bathroom instead. The lighting is shit!” It’s a _disgrace_ of a dick pic, maybe even worse than the last one. 

“Don’t hold back now,” Kaner mutters petulantly. 

Jonny rolls his eyes, leaning back on the counter. “Hey, you asked for it, bud.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Kaner sighs dejectedly. “Okay, Señor Schlong, now tell me how I fix it.” And, well—Jonny was practically asking for it. 

“First of all, never call me that again,” Jonny says automatically. “ _Second_ of all, just so we’re clear—this is you officially asking me to teach you how to take a dick pic, right?” 

Kaner’s silent for a second. “Yes,” he mutters finally, and despite the fact that Jonny still finds the whole situation mildly traumatizing, he can’t help but gloat a little. For like, a fraction of a second. Then he just goes right back to his base state of mild trauma. He gives Kaner the basics: depth of field, the rule of thirds, hard light versus soft light. 

“Huh?” Kaner says blankly when Jonny’s done. “Was I actually supposed to understand any of that?” 

Jonny rubs his temples and sighs. “How about you just make sure it’s in focus, use light from your window, and for god’s sake, just take the picture when you’re in bed instead of your bathroom, okay?”

“I jack off in my shower, though,” Kaner whines. “It’s way more convenient.”

“Tough shit, loser,” Jonny says. “Bed or bust. Got it?”

“Fine,” Kaner says petulantly. 

“Good,” Jonny says before hanging up. He walks over to the fridge. Opens it. Shuts it, because suddenly drinking his mid-afternoon protein shake is the last thing he wants to do. Stupid Kaner and his appetite-ruining phone call. 

His phone pings with a text from Kaner. 

_About to jack it in bed to get that A+ quality dick pic 8=D_

_Well actually it’s more like 8====D ;-)_

Jonny stares wearily, feels a little more of his soul leave his body, sends back a thumbs up, and turns his phone off. He was going to work out, but fuck it—he deserves the sweet release of sleep. 

* * *

Turns out even _sleeping_ isn’t safe. He wakes up exhausted, the horrifying image of Kaner chasing him around his apartment with his dick in his hand, asking Jonny to rate it playing in a loop in his head. 

Jonny makes the ill-advised decision of mentioning it to Kaner the next day, because he’s a fucking moron. 

“You dreamed about my dick?” Kaner says, brows shooting up towards his hairline, hand pausing mid-tape job.

“Not like that!” Jonny says shrilly in response to the cocky smirk curling onto Kaner’s face. “It was a _nightmare_. Your stupid dick has permanently scarred my brain.” 

“Uh huh,” Kaner says, smothering a smile. “Sure.”

“Oh my god I _hate you,_ ” Jonny groans, throwing his glove at Kaner’s face while he ducks and snickers. 

An even more horrifying result of this conversation was that Kaner somehow takes it as a sign that he has free rein to send Jonny dick pics whenever he wants. 

He sends messages like ‘ _How’d I do, prof?’_ followed by dick pics of varying degrees of quality, coming in at all hours of the day. And won’t shut up until Jonny _grades_ them. The thing is, Jonny knows he can put a stop to this. All he has to do is tell Kaner he took an ‘A+’ dick pic, and he can be free of the chains of the dick-pic parade. But, well—he can’t _lie_ to the guy. Kaner is getting better, no doubt. But he’s still got work to do.

“Kaner, it was ok,” Jonny says wearily when Kaner bursts into Jonny’s apartment one day after Jonny had given him a C+ on a shot of his dick he took that morning. 

“Okay?” Kaner says incredulously, waving his screen in front of Jonny’s face. “ _Okay?_ My cock looks fucking phenomenal, man.” And—it did. Kaner’s fingers were wrapped around the base—you could really see how _big_ he was for once. But— 

“Just, maybe, chill with the filters?” Jonny shrugs. “It’s not a fucking Instagram post. Also, it was backlit.”

Kaner looks at him, jaw clenching. “I think you’re full of shit.”

“Excuse me?” Jonny says flatly, crossing his arms. 

“You talk big game,” Kaner says. “But how do I know you’re actually some sort of dick pic black belt? It’s not like I’ve ever seen any proof. So yeah—I’m calling bull.”

Jonny stares. “Are you serious right now?” 

Kaner just looks back mulishly. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Jonny rolls his eyes. “What the fuck do you want me to do about it, show you my fucking dick pic portfolio?” he says derisively. 

Kaner shrugs. 

Jonny can feel his mouth drop. “Wha—This is crazy. No fucking way.”

“Wanna make sure I’m not taking lessons from a whack-job,” Kaner retaliates. “Don’t wanna get ripped off.”

“You’re not _paying_ me,” Jonny mutters, even though he honestly thinks he deserves it at this point. 

"You're just scared to show me because you know you can't put your money where your mouth is." 

It's bait. It's _so clearly_ bait. 

“Fine,” Jonny finds himself saying, much to his chagrin. “Read it and weep, motherfucker.” And then his traitorous hand is reaching into his pockets and fishing out his phone and oh my _god,_ why is he going along with this insanity? It’s like he’s stuck in some whacky horror movie where his limbs are being controlled by an evil spirit. A dick pic demon. _Fuck._

It takes him a few minutes to get to his private, locked dick pic folder—yes, he has a dick pic folder, it’s called organization and safety—while Kaner taps his foot impatiently. Jonny opens it. Stares. Is suitably impressed by himself for a few moments, then remembers _why_ he’s staring at his dick pics in the first place.

Kaner not-so-subtly clears his throat, and Jonny’s head snaps up. Kaner doesn’t say a thing, just raises a brow and reaches his hand out like an asshole, which makes Jonny grit his teeth. Jonny shoves his phone into Kaner’s hand. “Have at it,” he says sarcastically and then diverts his gaze to the floor, because there is literally nothing else he wants less than to watch Kaner judging his dick pics. 

Jonny braces himself for the inevitable chirps, but—Kaner's quiet. _Really_ quiet, actually. After a few minutes pass and Kaner hasn't said a word, Jonny caves and looks up, because it's becoming increasingly clear that this was probably some elaborate prank on Kaner's part and he's probably changing Jonny's lock screen to a picture of his face or something and Jonny is a total moron for just handing his phone over like that—

Huh. 

Kaner looks _weird._ His eyes are all glazed over and his mouth is parted and he’s— _blushing_ , what the fuck. 

“Er, Kaner?” Jonny asks hesitantly. Kaner’s head shoots up and he honest-to-god _squeaks._

“I, uh, gotta go,” Kaner says, hastily shoving Jonny’s phone back towards him. “I have a thing.”

“A thing,” Jonny echoes. 

“Yup!” Kaner says brightly, jabbing a thumb towards the door. “So, um, bye.” And with that, he spins on his heels and high-tails it out of Jonny’s apartment. 

Jonny blinks at the door. What the hell was _that_? Jonny’s still adjusting to having Kaner barge into his apartment for dick pic-related emergencies, but usually the dude at least stays over to eat or play video games or something. Maybe seeing Jonny’s dick pics freaked him out, which, thanks Kaner, welcome to “I had to see my best friend’s junk”sville, population two. It’s not a fun place to be, so Jonny can see why he’d be upset. But hey, Jonny _warned_ him. It was Kaner’s stupid idea in the first place. 

Jonny sighs and unlocks his phone just to see which picture had spooked Kaner into speeding away from his apartment like his ass was on fire. 

Oh. _Oh._

Jonny can feel himself going violently red because _holy fuck_ it was a good picture—one of Jonny’s favorites, actually, but. Just. It’s _intimate_ , a shot of Jonny’s spent cock laying on his stomach with his come pooling in his abs. Okay, well, either Kaner was blindingly enraged by Jonny’s dick pic virtuosity and stomped out of his apartment in a jealous huff, or yeah, he’s supremely, supremely freaked out. 

Jonny groans. This is all Kaner’s fault. The whole fucking thing. Or maybe it’s _his_ fault for attempting to give Kaner advice in the first place. Regardless, it’s all extremely fucked. Well, at least one good thing is likely to come out of this—Jonny’s pretty sure he won’t be getting any more dick pics from Kaner any time soon. 

He valiantly ignores the fact that he’s not as happy about it as he maybe should be. 

* * *

Well, Jonny was right about one thing—there are no more dick pic bombs from Kaner waiting for Jonny in his messages app. But that’s about as far as Jonny’s Kaner-intuition takes him, because he can’t even begin to figure out what the rest of Kaner’s behavior means. 

Besides ignoring the fact that the whole asking-to-see-Jonny’s-dick-pics-thing happened, Kaner acts perfectly normal in practice the next day, chirping Jonny about his bed-head and stealing the puck from him as obnoxiously as usual. In fact, he’s acting way more chill than Jonny, who feels twitchy as hell, waiting for the other shoe to drop. As time passes, though, it’s becoming pretty clear they’re stashing this into the “things we don’t talk about'' vault along with the whole Chocolate Muffin Incident of 2008, and—Jonny can deal with that, absolutely. It’s good. It’s for the best. 

But despite how outwardly normal shit is between them, Jonny swears he can feel Kaner _watching_ him when he thinks Jonny’s not looking. Like, the other day, Jonny was drinking from his water bottle and turned around and Kaner was _staring,_ right at his mouth. And the same thing happened when Jonny glanced up while he was doing squats, except this time Kaner’s eyes were on, well. He went to the bathroom later to check if maybe he sat in something weird and stained the back of his shorts, but he couldn’t find anything. Maybe if it were a one-time thing, Jonny would write it off. But it keeps happening. Jonny thinks. Or maybe he’s just fucking paranoid. It’s not exactly routine “I saw another dude’s junk and it freaked me out” type behavior, but then again, Kaner’s not your average dude, so Jonny decides to chalk it up to Kaner being Kaner. 

Point is, Dick Pic Gate appears to be a thing of the past, so when Jonny picks up Kaner’s call mid onion-chop, he really has no idea what Kaner is talking about when he announces “I’ve been practicing.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Jonny says, switching to speakerphone and setting it down on the counter. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I know? We play on the same team, Kaner. Are you okay?” And _fuck,_ onion juice right in the eye. Kaner’s following words are lost to the running faucet and Jonny splashing water in his eyes, so the only thing Jonny catches when he turns off the water is “...really leveled up my dick pic game.”

If Jonny was still holding his phone, he would’ve dropped it. “What?” he says weakly, dabbing his dripping face with his shirt. 

“I _said_ , I’m a dick pic maestro, now, dude,” Kaner drawls from the other end of the line. Oh. So Jonny _did_ hear that right and wasn’t hallucinating. Great. 

“I, uh, didn’t know you were still doing that,” Jonny says, trying to keep his voice steady. He abandons his cutting board in favor of walking over to the fridge to grab a beer, because no way is he ready to have this conversation stone cold sober.

“‘Course, Mama Kane didn’t raise no quitter,” Kaner says in what is probably the worst attempt at a Southern accent known to mankind—seriously, Jonny’s Canadian, and even _he’s_ embarrassed. 

Jonny takes a swig of his beer and massages his forehead. “Well, that’s great news bud,” he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, although he’s not exactly sure why Kaner is telling _him_ all this. 

“I’m ready for my A+, prof.”

Jonny freezes. “Thought you were skeptical about my qualifications,” he says finally, trying to keep his tone light. It’s the closest they’d come to acknowledging Kaner demanding to see Jonny’s dick pics before fleeing his apartment.

There’s a small noise from across the line. “You’ll do,” Kaner replies simply, and Jonny’s stomach goes weirdly tight at that, skin flushing cold and then hot as he grips the counter for support. Before Jonny can scramble to come up with a response, his phone pings with a text. “Come on, rate me,” Kaner says, and, well, Jonny can’t exactly get out of this one, can he?

He picks up his phone, opens his texts. Stares. “Kaner, I thought you said you’d been practicing,” Jonny says, frowning. It’s the same old shit, blurry picture, bad angles. “D+, and that’s being generous.”

“Okay, okay,” Kaner says hastily, “How about this one?” Another text comes through, and—

It’s a _little_ better—it’s sharp at least, but the framing is all off. Jonny sighs. “You know I admire your competitive spirit or whatever, but maybe stick to channeling it into hockey, okay? I really don’t think dick pics—”

“How about this one?” Kaner interrupts, and Jonny’s phone goes off with another ping. Jonny rolls his eyes.

“Look, bud, I’m in the middle of cooking dinner, I’m not gonna spend my whole night standing here rating your mediocre dick pics—trust me, it’s not gonna be a good time for anybody,” Jonny says. 

“Last one, I promise. Just look, Jonny.”

Jonny looks up at the ceiling. Says a little prayer. “Fine,” he grits out, opening up the picture. “But I don’t know what you’re expecting, your basic understanding of photography is clearly—”

Jonny almost chokes on his tongue.

_Holy fuck._

If Jonny’s dick pics can be printed in art books in his favorite hipster coffee shop, this dick pic should be hung and fucking framed in a Dick Pic Museum or some shit. It’s a simple shot—Kaner’s in bed, bare legs tangled in white sheets. It looked like he’d moved his bed in front of a window, because the light is even and soft—early morning. His big hand is wrapped around his cock, thumb resting on the slit, and he’s—

He’s wearing his fucking Stanley Cup ring. 

It’s the douchiest thing Jonny’s ever seen.

Heat sears down his spine so fast and hard that he’s dizzy with it. 

“How’d I do, prof?” Kaner asks softly. Jonny doesn’t say a thing. _Can’t_ say a thing—is too busy staring at the breadth of Kaner’s big knuckles, the soft pink of his head, the way you can see a hint of the pale inside of one of Kaner’s thighs. The ring, huge and obnoxious. 

_FuckFuckFuck_

“Jonny?” Kaner asks, interrupting Jonny’s dangerous line of thinking. 

“S-sorry, phone slipped,” Jonny says finally, praying to god he doesn’t sound as insane as he feels. What the hell is he supposed to say? It’s a dick pic worthy of an A+ if there ever was one, but—

“B+,” he finds himself saying. “Could use better composition.” _No it couldn’t, you liar, it’s perfect, why the hell did you say that?_

Kaner hums. “You sure about that?” he says, voice sounding oddly— _amused._

Jonny squirms. “Yep,” he says. 

“Huh,” Kaner says mildly. “Guess I’ll have to keep trying then.” The most baffling part is that he doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. 

“Guess so,” Jonny says weakly. Kaner signs off with a goodbye and a promise to take a better dick pic while Jonny nods along feeling like a dirty liar. Kaner hangs up, leaving Jonny with a crisis, a boner, and a guilty conscience the size of the United Center. 

Jonny turns of his phone feeling like he’s been hit by a fucking freight train. No way in hell did A) Kaner take a dick pic like _that_ and B) Did Kaner’s dick pic get Jonny _hot_ , what the fuck. It’s downright _laughable_. But the proof is in the pudding—the pudding being Jonny’s distressingly persistent hard-on. He gives up on cooking dinner in favor of trying to kill his boner with a cold shower and ordering pity takeout—Chinese, to be specific, which he reserves for events that cause grief of truly epic proportions, like getting knocked out of the playoffs or suffering a latent sexuality crisis because your best friend took a dick pic worthy of being hung in the Louvre. 

You know what? Maybe that’s all it was—a confused biological reaction to encountering a dick pic so aesthetically pleasing it was practically a work of art. Not _attraction,_ just appreciation. Yeah, an appreciation boner. A good-job-on-the-perfect-dick-pic boner—never let it be said that Jonny couldn’t recognize true talent when he saw it. Like how Kaner’s goals get him hot sometimes—it doesn’t mean he wants to _bang_ the dude, he just, you know, appreciates good hockey, sue him. And apparently good dick pics. 

Crisis averted, day saved. Jonny can sleep in peace. He should probably delete the pic, just to be safe, but—

Eh, he’ll do it in the morning.

* * *

Turns out Jonny _cannot_ sleep in peace. He dreams about Kaner with his dick out again, except this time, Jonny’s on his knees in front of him. “You wanna come over and suck it?” Dream Kaner says cockily, and even in his dreams Jonny cringes at that, but much to his horror, the stupid line works on Dream Jonny because he’s opening his mouth, letting Dream Kaner—

_Fuck._

Jonny wakes up, looks down at his boxers, and promptly tries to smother himself with his pillow. _Aesthetic appreciation,_ he frantically reminds himself. _It’s cool, it’s normal, we’re good._ But then another little voice has to pipe up and say _Oh yes purely aesthetic appreciation that includes you wanting the dude’s dick down your throat,_ which—

Listen, there’s still a chance the whole dick-sucking thing was purely a result of whacky fever-dream land—just because Jonny dreamed about choking on Kaner’s dick doesn’t mean he actually, you know, _wants to choke on Kaner’s dick_. There’s only one real way to figure out the truth. Jonny holds his breath and pulls up the picture. 

_Jesus christ._

It’s like being hit with a gut punch of arousal—Jonny goes hot all over, and he’s frankly alarmed at how rapidly his cock hardens. The death blow, however, comes when Jonny finds himself thinking that no matter how good Kaner’s fingers look wrapped around his cock, Jonny’s lips would look better. 

So much for an appreciation boner. 

Ok, couple of options here. 1) He goes back to bed and tries to meditate himself into a different plane of existence wherein he parts with his mortal body and by extension, the entirety of human suffering. Pros: No more getting awkward Kaner-induced boners. Cons: Well he wouldn’t have a dick at all, actually, what with him being all non-corporeal and shit. And no hockey, so that’s probably out. 2) He wakes up, puts his big boy pants on, and continues with his life. Pros: He gets to play hockey. And also retain his eight figure salary. Cons: Pretty much everything else at the moment _._

_Fan-fucking-tastic._

In the end, he hauls his ass to practice, because he has a team to lead, dammit—and showing up for them is more important than any pesky feelings of dick-pic-inspired mortification. Or at least that’s what he tells himself up until he walks into the locker room, sees Kaner changing, and promptly goes as red as a Hawks home jersey. “Sup, Taze?” Kaner says casually, oblivious to the havoc the sight of his half-naked body is wreaking on Jonny’s system. 

What is happening to him? Did Kaner do some freaky voodoo on that picture? Because Jonny’s seen Kaner naked more times than he can count and has felt absolutely nothing, nada, _zilch._ But now Jonny looks at Kaner and all he can think about is walking over and dropping to his knees. 

Jonny’s starting to think he should’ve gone with option 1). 

It takes Jonny mustering every last bit of his historically scarce amount of chill and a set of hastily muttered positive affirmations in the visitor’s bathroom mirror for him to act normal around Kaner at practice—he trudges into the locker room afterwards physically exhausted from the drills and emotionally exhausted by the weight of his new desires but feeling decently optimistic about the performance he just put up as “Jonathan Does-not-want-to-suck-Kaner’s-dick Toews.” Give him a fucking Oscar. 

Maybe with some time and space, he’ll get over this momentary blip in sanity. But what does the universe not deem Jonny worthy of? That’s right—time and space. 

Kaner keeps sending him dick pics. 

He’s _relentless_ , and now every time Jonny opens his phone, there’s this mixture of dread and arousal swirling inside him, which are two feelings that have absolutely no business crossing wires, thank you very much. The cherry on top of it all is that every single one of these dick pics are hall-of-famers—first fucking ballot. Somehow, some fucking way, Kaner’s become a dick pic ninja. It’s dangerous and distressing. Jonny spends a good portion of his evenings staring at his phone screen and resulting boner with despair and before proceeding to spend copious amounts of time under the freezing spray of his shower-head, because although Jonny’s body seems to have lost the fucking plot, there’s no way in hell he’s giving into his traitorous dick’s baffling desires. 

That is until the jersey picture. 

It comes late at night—Jonny’s phone lights up with the text when he’s already tucked into bed. He’s already taken a shower, but as he groans and rolls over to scrabble for his phone lying on the nightstand, he resigns himself to having to take another one. How the hell is Kaner jacking off this much anyway? By this rate his dick’s gonna fucking fall off. And then maybe Jonny will finally know peace. Jonny sighs and opens the picture, and—

His mouth goes dry. 

It’s a shot of Kaner shooting all over his jersey. Right on the fucking 88. Jonny’d started chubbing up the moment he saw Kaner’s name on his screen—it’s like a fucking Pavlovian reaction at this point— but nothing accounts for the speed with which he goes achingly, desperately hard or the intensity of the heat singing under his skin. 

He’s gripping his phone tight, so tight, all his focus narrowed in on the screen in front of him. Jonny doesn’t know why it gets to him like this, but it does, right where he fucking lives. Makes him have to press a palm to his dick just to get some relief, roll up his hips once, just once before he snatches his hand back, guilty. He can’t. He fucking _can’t._

But the images rise unbidden—Kaner walking over to his closet, pulling out his jersey. Laying it out on the bed, getting himself good and worked up—did he do it nice and slow, taking his time? Or was he riding that jittery edge of arousal, where every touch is too much and not enough at once? Where you feverishly chase your release, but when it comes it’s almost underwhelming, more _relief_ than pleasure? Imagines him timing the shot, getting it right as his come is splattering over the 88. Imagines him breathing hard as he’s coming down from the high, pulling up Jonny’s contact in his phone and sending the picture while his come’s still drying.

A groan tears out of Jonny’s throat at that, and he has to—

Touch. Just a little. Wraps his fingers around his dick and gives it a few pumps. He’ll stop soon. 

He just has to—

_What if the 88 were a 19._

“Fuck,” he moans, hips fucking _up up up_ into his fist and—

The shame is quick to sink in, afterwards. 

The thing is, Jonny is his own judge, jury, and executioner here. All he has to do to stop the madness is give Kaner a goddamn A+—it’s not like the guy doesn’t deserve it. But he can’t bring himself to, and he doesn’t know _why._

 _(LiarLiarLiar, if you give Kaner an A+ he’ll stop_ —)

It’s fucked, well and truly. A tragedy. Or maybe it’s a comedy. Jonny’s life is depressing, but if God exists, he’s laughing his ass off right now. Ergo, a tragi-comedy. 

Jonny’s taking too long to respond to the picture—Kaner can see that he’s read the message. Fuck. He gropes around for his phone—jesus, he got come on his fucking screen. _Sorry got busy,_ he types out hastily. He gives Kaner B+ for using an away jersey instead of a home jersey, citing “lack of originality in the color scheme” on account of the white of the jersey being too similar in color to Kaner’s jizz. Complete and utter nonsense.

Shit is _dire._

The thing about Kaner is that not only is the guy one of the most competitive motherfuckers on the planet, but he’s also always known exactly how good he is at things, whether that be hockey or charming the pants off of every beat reporter in a five mile radius. 

So when Jonny opens his door the next afternoon and sees Kaner standing on the other side with his phone in hand and a glint in his eye, he knows his day of reckoning has finally come. 

“Jonathan,” Kaner says evenly, broad smile made sinister by how entirely _un-_ sinister it is—he’s radiating this weird zen energy, like he swallowed a how-to guide on spiritual enlightenment en route to Jonny’s apartment. He has a black baseball cap pulled on low. For the past decade, it’s only sparked a vague sense of familiarity. Now it stars in Jonny’s frequently accessed memories as “that hat in the background of the skyline dick pic,” buying itself a first-class ticket to the inner sanctum of shit that will make Jonny blush on sight, which means Jonny can’t even look Kaner in the eye right now. 

“Hey Kaner,” Jonny says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed lightly. He’s aiming for casual, but he has a nasty feeling that he’s ended up somewhere in the vicinity of crazy instead—he can practically feel his put-upon smile twist into a grimace, and his heart is thudding so loudly he wouldn’t be surprised if Kaner could hear it. “Listen, bud, I’m kind of bus—”

“So I’m having a bit of a dilemma,” Kaner interrupts. 

Jonny pauses. “Oh?” he says weakly. Why the fuck did Jonny answer the door without checking who was outside? Actually, scratch that. Who _else_ would it be, really? Has Jonny learned nothing? The second he heard that knock he should’ve locked himself in his goddamn bedroom with the lights off. 

“Yeah,” Kaner nods. “See, I spent hours and hours pouring over photography books and watching video tutorials so I could take bomb dick pics, and I thought I was doing a pretty bang up fucking job. But all that hard work, and I still can’t get an A+ from you,” he says, leveling a piercing stare at Jonny and oh god Jonny is so, so fucked. 

“Er—” 

“And I think I know why,” Kaner finishes. 

_FuckFuckFuck_

“Oh?” Jonny parrots dumbly, praying for imminent death. 

“I have something left to learn.” 

Jonny blinks. “Huh?” 

Kaner pushes Jonny back into the door and slips inside without a backward look. 

“Clearly, there’s some essential quality missing in my pictures that are preventing them from reaching top-tier status,” Kaner says, spinning around to lean against the back of the sofa. “Something being lost in translation via verbal or written instruction. So,” he says, dragging out the ‘o’ and leaning further back on the sofa, “I think it’s time I finally got an in-person tutorial.” 

Jonny’s brain is emptier than an open net. 

“What,” he says flatly. He searches Kaner’s face for any hint that he’s kidding, but he’s met with that same eerily pleasant and collected expression, like Kaner had just suggested they try the new Thai place for lunch rather than propose that Jonny help him produce what essentially amounts to softcore porn that’s likely to be distributed to a sizable portion of the female population of Chicago. 

“It’s the only solution,” Kaner shrugs. 

Jonny’s head fucking hurts. “No,” he says. “No, it’s not the only solution. It’s not a solution at _all._ Kaner have you—”

“I promise this is the last time you’ll hear anything about dick pics from me if you help,” Kaner says, holding out his pinky finger. “No more pictures, no more asking for feedback, nothing.” He pauses and cocks his head. “That’s what you want, right?” he asks carefully, eyes boring into Jonny’s. 

_No._

_Shit._

“Yes,” Jonny lies. Clears his throat. “Yeah of course.” There’s a steady blaring of alarm bells going off in his head, a foreboding chorus of _Danger! Danger! Danger!_ This is the most moronic idea known to mankind. Whose brain worked like this? No one’s who’s sane, clearly. But Jonny’s lost control of the situation, to say the least. Now it’s in the hands of the two most formidable forces in the universe—fate and Patrick Kane. 

“Good,” Kaner nods. “So it’s a win-win situation.” Except then Kaner starts taking off his shirt and pants, and Jonny doesn’t feel like a winner at all. He tosses them on the floor, and then Kaner is in his boxers in Jonny’s living room. Cool. Good. Kaner in boxers. He can do Kaner in boxers. 

“Where do you want me, Prof?” Kaner asks, idly scratching at his stomach. 

Jonny cannot do Kaner in boxers.

The dips and grooves of his abs, the definition of his arms, the hard peaks of his nipples, his shoulders. His goddamn shoulders. Every part of Kaner that Jonny’s been familiar with for _years_ is suddenly rocking his world in the worst way possible—it’s like Kaner’s dick pics are some sort of freaky gateway drug. Kaner raises a brow, and dear lord, even _that’s_ attractive. 

_Suck it up and get your shit together Toews._

Jonny clears his throat. “Right, er,” he darts a quick glance around. “Sofa? The light’s pretty good and the couch is a neutral color—good background, not distracting.” Sounds convincing enough, right? Like where the hell else is Kaner supposed to go? Certainly not anywhere near a bed, which is the only other surface in Jonny’s apartment upon which it’s appropriate to lounge around on. It’s not like Jonny’s going to lay him out on the rug like some kind of boudoir model. God, that’s ho—ridiculous! A completely ridiculous and not-hot-at-all image. 

Kaner quirks a smile at him and gives a lazy salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He ambles over and plops down on his back, limbs sprawled wide and comfortable. And then his thumbs hook into the waistband of his boxers and start pulling _down._

“W-what are you doing?” Jonny stutters. He can see Kaner’s _hip bones,_ and then—

Jonny isn’t fucking cut out for this. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Kaner asks smoothly, lifting his hips and pulling the boxers the rest of the way down. He tosses them off to the side, and then Kaner is fully fucking naked on Jonny’s sofa. Kaner. Is. Naked. On. Jonny’s. Sofa. “Can’t take a dick pic without my dick out,” he says reasonably, reaching down to cup his cock, starting to work up a rhythm.

“Kaner—” In some distant part of Jonny’s brain—a very distant part, mind you—he supposes he recognizes how admirable it is, Kaner’s steely determination. There aren’t many people in the world that would resort to jacking off in front of their best friend just to master the art of the dick pic—it’s next level commitment. So props to him, really. But mostly Jonny’s just thinking _What. Why. What. Stop_ and shamefully, _(Don’t stop)._

“Gotta get hard,” Kaner says, voice low. “Right?” He’s— _teasing_ , thumb and forefinger wrapped around in a loose grip, touching light, moving slow and languid. Not the mercenary strokes you’d use to get there quick. 

Jonny swallows. “Yeah,” he says, and he couldn’t keep the hoarseness out of his voice even if he tried. He should look away—probably looks like a fucking creep, staring at Kaner while he gets himself off, but—

He can’t. Can’t keep his eyes off the dirty drag of Kaner’s fingers, the twitching of his abs, the way he lies his phone down on his chest so he can reach up to swipe a quick pass over one of his nipples, bending his thumb to catch the edge of it with his nail. 

It’s all of Jonny fantasies over the last few weeks playing out in real time, in the flesh. If Jonny thought a still picture of Kaner with his hand around a dick was devastating, it’s nothing compared to how it feels to see the flush stealing over Kaner’s cheeks while he touches himself, to hear the grunts catching in his throat, to see him get hard and leaking right in front of Jonny’s eyes. He has a hysterical flash of a coroner writing ‘ _Cause of death: Patrick Kane’s dick’_ on his death certificate _._ Well, he always knew Kaner would be the end of him in one way or another. 

“Gonna start taking pics now, what do you think?” Kaner asks, voice coming out a little breathy, staring right at Jonny as he moves his hand up and down his dick, steady as anything. 

“Yeah.” Jonny’s voice cracks. “Good idea.” Good idea? _Good idea?_ No, _not_ a good idea! Not a good idea at all! 

Kaner nods like Jonny’s said something particularly insightful and grabs his phone off his chest. “C’mere,” he says, angling the phone down. Looks up when Jonny doesn’t move. “You’re up, Taze.” Widens the spread of his thighs. “You gonna help me?” This is it—the proverbial edge of the cliff with a steep drop laid out in front of him. Last chance to take a step back, last chance to bail. Jonny closes his eyes once, briefly. 

“Yeah Kaner,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll help you.” He makes his way over to the couch with the same sense of trepidation that comes with walking down the tunnel before an important game—Kaner clearly wants him to look at the picture, but he’s holding his phone down low by his hip, and Jonny can’t see. “Er, should I—” he starts. 

“Get down here,” Kaner says softly, looking up at him. So Jonny awkwardly sinks to his knees and clambers towards the couch so he’s almost at face-level with Kaner. 

Kaner’s dick is approximately a foot away from his face, _holy shit._ Kaner’s still keeping up his strokes, even as he tilts his phone screen towards Jonny’s face so he can take a look. 

“What do you think?” Kaner asks, blinking up at Jonny, other hand almost idly working his cock, up-down, up-down, up-down. 

Jonny swallows hard, forces himself to focus on the screen in front of him. To ignore the slick sounds of Kaner’s hand on his dick, how pink and perfect he is down there, the girth of him. 

“It’s good, but you could—” Jonny makes an aborted gesture with his hand. “Move your wrist back a little, so the angle isn’t as awkward.”

Kaner stills his hand, shifts his wrist. “Like this?”

“No, like—” Jonny brings up his hand to hover in the air by Kaner’s hip. His fingers are shaking a little. He curls them in, like he’s holding a cock and turns his wrist just so. Widens his fake grip in the air because Kaner’s bigger than that, actually. “Like this.” 

Kaner shifts again, trying to mimic Jonny’s grip. “This?”

Jonny shakes his head. “No—”

“Why don’t you show me?” Kaner says easily, and Jonny doesn’t get it, because he _is_ showing Kaner—

And then Kaner takes his hand off his cock altogether, tilts his hips towards Jonny. Looks up at him from under his lashes, blinking slow, teeth sinking lightly into the plump curve of his bottom lip. 

Jonny’s brain blanks out. Kaner can’t mean—

But Kaner clearly _does,_ staring expectantly at Jonny, the cradle of his thighs widened in invitation. Jonny feels a hysterical bout of laughter rise up inside him, because Kaner’s the one asking him to touch his dick, but somehow Jonny’s still the one in danger of making things weird. The longer that passes the faster it approaches—the painful possibility of having to acknowledge the absurdity of the situation. 

Or maybe it would just be painful for Jonny, because yeah, Kaner’s clearly lost his goddamn mind, but to him this is just some game to win, where Jonny’s hand on his dick is just a necessary evil on the path to reaching ultimate dick pic mastery, or whatever the fuck. Jonny wonders if he’d be nearly as chill with this if he knew the true size and shape of Jonny’s desires. 

Well, Jonny sure as fuck isn’t about to tell him. 

So he knee walks over until he’s behind the armrest of the sofa where Kaner’s head is lying. Rises up so his chest is lightly pressed against the back of Kaner’s head and leans forward, reaching his arm out across Kaner’s body. Wraps his fingers around Kaner’s cock. “Like this,” he says, shaky. 

Jonny feels—insane, arousal coiling low in his stomach and spreading through him so fast he can practically feel it in his fucking teeth. Kaner’s all velvet heat under his hand, thick, good heft. Hard. Wet. Perfect. _Fuck._ Kaner’s breath hitches and Jonny can feel his cock fucking twitch in Jonny’s grasp. Kaner picks up his phone, aims it where Jonny is holding his dick. Snaps a picture. “Yeah,” he says, the slightest tremor in his voice. “That’s—that’s good. I see what you mean.” 

_And that, Jonathan, is your cue to unhand your buddy’s dick,_ his brain tells him. But his body’s not quite so quick to comply, fingers lingering way longer than they should. Just as he’s about to release Kaner, Kaner’s hand shoots up, pressing a light touch to Jonny’s wrist. Stilling his movement. 

“Maybe,” he says, voice gruff. He clears his throat. “Maybe you can keep, like, showing me. It’s helpful.”

Jonny’s heart rate speeds up. He wishes he could see Kaner’s face, so he could maybe get half a clue as to what the hell’s going on in his head right now. But he can’t. And maybe he doesn’t want to, deep down—just wants to live in this illusion, this upside-down, ass-backwards little moment in time where he’s allowed to touch, to feel. So he does. Slides his grip up Kaner’s shaft, nice and slow. Savoring it. Thumbs the underside of the head of his cock. Watches Kaner raise a trembling hand and take a picture.

“Angle it back a little,” Jonny murmurs, drawing in close so his lips are near Kaner’s ear. “So you can get your abs in the shot.” He trails his hand down to run his hand over them, once. Feels them clench under his hands. “They’re nice,” he whispers, and then freezes. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck,_ why did he say that? He ruined it. Kaner’s going to freak. Stupid, so fucking stupid. He’s going to have to get himself traded, isn’t he? Because there’s no way in hell he can look Kaner in the eye after this. 

And then Kaner shifts his phone to his left hand. Takes his right hand and threads his fingers through Jonny’s, which are still resting on Kaner’s abs. 

Jonny thinks he’s stopped breathing. 

Kaner starts stroking his thumb over Jonny’s knuckle, soft and steady. “Thanks Tazer,” he says, keeping up the measured strokes, each one making Jonny weaker and weaker in the knees. “These pictures are better. Still something missing to get them to that next level, though.”

Jonny can’t think. “What?” he croaks out, eyes helplessly zeroed in on the spot where Kaner’s swiping over his skin. 

Kaner stills his movements, squeezes Jonny’s hand lightly. 

“Your lips around my cock,” Kaner says. 

Jonny doesn’t register the sound he makes—it certainly isn’t any recognizable word in the English language. 

_Your lips around my cock_

_Your lips around my cock_

_Your lips around my cock_

“Kaner,” he gasps out, voice strangled. His mouth opens, reaching for something else to say, anything else. But Kaner’s done it—he’s officially broken Jonny’s brain. 

Kaner untangles his fingers from Jonny’s as he rises up, swings his legs around so he’s sitting with his back resting against the sofa, eyes slanted down at Jonny. There’s this smirk playing at his lips, the same one Jonny’s seen on his face when he finishes saying something dirty in girls’ ears at bars, drawing back just to see their faces go flushed and their eyes go dark. Jonny’s seen it happen dozens of times, has always thought _unbelievable,_ because the thought of Kaner— _Kaner_ —being smooth to any degree was downright laughable. 

Jonny’s not laughing now. 

He can feel the sweat break out, skin going hot. He can’t look Kaner in the eyes, so he doesn’t see Kaner’s thumb until it’s pressing gently but firmly at the seam of his lips. Jonny’s eyes shoot up. 

“You gonna let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours, Jonny?” Kaner asks softly, finger forcing its way inside Jonny’s mouth. 

_Holy shit._

“You asshole,” Jonny says weakly around Kaner’s finger. _This_ is the same guy who couldn’t take a dick pic to save his life a few weeks ago? Whose drunk ass Jonny has routinely dragged back to his apartment so he wouldn’t fall into a bush? Either Kaner’s been reading “Becoming a Sex God For Dummies” in between studying the art of the dick pic—a 2-in-1 kind of deal—or Jonny has made a grave fucking miscalculation regarding Kaner’s sexual prowess. 

Kaner chuckles, sliding his thumb in deeper until it’s resting on Jonny’s tongue, making Jonny wrap his lips around the digit on instinct. “There you go,” Kaner says sweetly, pumping it in and out. “Come on, get over here,” he says, gesturing towards his lap. “Wanna see you choke on my dick.”

Jonny tries to muster up a modicum of indignation on his behalf, because he feels like he should, at the very least, be mildly outraged—but all he can feel is his dick straining against his pants and his mouth getting wet with saliva at the thought of getting to put Kaner’s stupid big dick in his mouth. 

And all this time, Jonny thought he was the one teaching Kaner. 

So Jonny shuffles his way around the couch until he’s kneeling right in front of Kaner’s spread legs—it’s fucking undignified, so Jonny glares up at Kaner. He smiles back unrepentantly and folds his arms behind his head, spreading his legs wider and shifting his hips forward so his giant cock is mere inches away from Jonny’s mouth. “You wanna come over and suck it?” Kaner says cheekily, waggling his eyebrows—it’s the same stupid line that didn’t work on that girl Joanna and _did_ work on Dream Jonny, and fuck him sideways, it’s working for real-life Jonny too, which is a frankly horrifying truth to face—he should be taking a page out of Joanna’s book. It’s a very sensible, rational book. But something about the way Kaner’s staring down at him with his bright eyes and cocky grin and stupid, devastating baseball cap has Jonny’s reason and logic flying right out the window. 

Jonny closes his eyes, tips his head back and groans. "You're actually the worst," he says, appalled to hear a hint of fondness coloring his voice. 

"Damn straight," Kaner says cheerfully. "But you want me anyway, don’t you?” 

Jonny snorts despite himself, sobering when he looks up to meet Kaner’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly, heartbeat stuttering strangely in his chest. 

Kaner’s smile softens for a second, thumb reaching out to press against the corner of Jonny’s mouth. He drops his hand, smirk returning full force. “It’s not gonna suck itself,” he says, gesturing down at his dick, and Jonny groans again, thunking his forehead against Kaner’s thigh. “The _worst_ ,” he reiterates, mumbling the words right into the soft, warm skin. But the joke’s on Jonny, because he _does_ want Kaner—so much he’s almost shaken by the force of it, the mad rush of his desire. 

He pulls back, takes a second to just look—shit, Kaner really is big. Jonny can already feel the phantom stretch at the corners of his lips, a ghost of an ache deep in his throat—it makes him have to reach down and press a palm to his own hard-on. Jonny shoots a quick glance up and catches Kaner’s smirk widening, and it’s with his cheeks burning pink that he finally leans forward and wraps his lips around the head of Kaner’s cock. 

“Yeah Jonny,” Kaner murmurs, voice going low and shivery. It hits Jonny right in the chest, makes him moan around Kaner’s cock as he starts the slow slide down Kaner’s shaft, lets himself feel the full weight of Kaner’s cock filling up his throat and stuffing him full. God, it’s—so much, too much, _perfect_ , everything he’s dreamed about for the past weeks and more. His dreams didn’t account for how it would feel to hear the dirty-slick sounds of his lips sliding against Kaner’s skin, how his ears would go red-hot at the obscene heat of it all. The way the bitter salt of Kaner’s precome blooming on his tongue would make his cock ache, make him rut his hips into the side of the sofa. How warm pleasure would bloom in his chest when Kaner curls his hands into Jonny’s hair and rubs at the spot of thin skin below his ear. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” Kaner rasps, fingers tightening in Jonny’s hair. The blatant appreciation in Kaner’s tone just makes Jonny go hotter, makes his mouth move faster, desperate—makes him want to choke himself on Kaner’s dick like Kaner had asked. “God, you love this don’t you?” Kaner says, sounding entirely too smug, reaching down to push against Jonny’s cheek, feeling the hardness of his own cock pumping in and out of Jonny’s mouth underneath it. “Knew you would. Kept giving me those ridiculous, low scores. It’s okay though, I knew why you did it— just wanted more of my dick, didn’t you Taze?” Jonny’s eyes flutter shut in embarrassment. 

He feels a whine catch in his throat, gives Kaner a good, wet suck. A shutter goes off. Jonny looks up in surprise, lips still wrapped around Kaner’s cock. Kaner’s looking at him with dark eyes, phone camera aimed down at Jonny’s face. _Holy fuck._ Kaner’s hand reaches down to hold Jonny on his cock before Jonny can even think about pulling off. “Bet you thought about this, right?” Kaner says, holding Jonny’s head in place as he starts to slide his hips forward and back, fucking his cock smoothly in and out of Jonny’s mouth. 

“Probably felt guilty about it, but you couldn’t help yourself, could you?” He takes another picture. “You took so long to respond to that jersey picture—I knew it then, what you’d done.” He moves his hips faster, deeper—it makes Jonny’s eyes water. He never wants it to end. Kaner leans forward, making the angle sharper, bringing him closer to Jonny. “Made me wanna drive over to your apartment right then and fuck you ‘til you cried,” he whispers harshly, driving his whole cock down Jonny’s throat. 

Jonny shudders and chokes around Kaner’s cock, each of Kaner’s words making his hips twitch like they’re a stroke on his dick instead. Kaner keeps taking pictures, each snap making Jonny burn with embarrassment and arousal in equal measure. He’s distantly afraid of coming like this—in his pants and without a hand on him, just from the feeling of gagging on Kaner’s cock and hearing him run his filthy mouth. 

“You make such a pretty picture, Jon,” Kaner says softly, fingers stroking through Jonny’s hair as he draws back, letting Jonny gasp and catch his breath for a moment before he slides his dick back into Jonny’s mouth in a gentle in-and-out, just slipping the head of his dick around Jonny’s tongue as he jacks the shaft with his own hand. His breath speeds up, moans filtering out through his lips as he jacks himself faster and faster, fingers bumping harder and harder against Jonny’s lips the more he moves his hand. 

Jonny squeezes his eyes shut and desperately wills himself not to come. He lets Kaner’s cock slip out of his mouth and wraps his hand around the base of Kaner’s dick before he can protest. Jonny meets Kaner’s eyes as he opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue. Draws his mouth back to Kaner’s dick and starts lapping at Kaner’s slit, even, curling licks as Kaner continues to jack his cock. “ _Fuck_ ,” Kaner whines, eyes going wide, hand flying over his cock. “Gonna—” He doesn’t even ask Jonny’s permission, the motherfucker—just slips his cock out of Jonny’s mouth and aims it straight at his face as he starts to shoot, his jizz catching Jonny on the cheek, on his chin—even in his fucking hair. 

It’s infuriatingly, maddeningly hot, so Jonny sits there, lets Kaner milk out every last drop on his face and tries to not let any come get in his eyes. Kaner’s breathing hard as he comes down, lids heavy and blissed out smile spreading across his face. He picks up the phone resting on his chest and takes one last snap. He turns the screen towards Jonny, reflecting his own come-covered face back at him. “Now that’s an A+ picture,” Kaner grins, having the nerve to reach down and rub through the come in Jonny’s hair, working it in.

Jonny bats his hand away. “Quit it, loser,” he scowls, cheeks burning. Fuck, he’s never going to be able to get it out of there. He probably needs to borrow Sharpy’s magic French shampoo if he even wants half a chance. But then he imagines having to explain _why_ he needs to borrow it and promptly wants to throw himself off a cliff, so he resigns himself to a life where he’s doomed to walk around with Kaner’s jizz in his hair for all of eternity—the thought isn’t nearly as upsetting as it should be. 

Kaner lets out a breathy laugh, taking off his baseball cap to run a hand through his sweaty curls. “What is it that you said about my dick pic and Joanna?” he says. “Oh yeah!” He snaps his fingers. “‘ _She won’t fuck you if send that_ ,’” he says snootily, twisting his face into an exaggerated look of distaste, and fuck Kaner, Jonny doesn’t sound like _that._ “Sure worked on you, though, didn’t it?” he smirks, and for some reason, Jonny’s stomach drops. 

Of course. Jonny’s always known Kaner’s competitive to the point of lunacy. Yeah, Kaner wanted to turn into a dick pic god because he genuinely can’t stand it when he’s not good at something—but Jonny was the one who specifically told Kaner he took shitty dick pics. It wasn’t enough for Kaner to just get good at dick pics—he needed to get confirmation that _Jonny_ thought he took good dick pics. And what better confirmation is there than to get Jonny on his knees, drooling over his dick?

It’s, like, the ultimate form of validation. A metaphorical gold star—that he’d slapped onto Kaner’s dick with his tongue. Fuck. The whole thing makes Jonny go cold, makes him look down at the floor and wish that it would swallow him whole. And now that Kaner’s got his validation, he can take his stupidly hot dick pics and send them to the person he actually wants, someone who’s more than just a trophy. Jonny imagines himself standing in Kaner’s closet next to his Stanley Cup rings with “Patrick Kane—1st place in Dick Pic Artistry” emblazoned across his forehead. 

Jonny’s been silent for too long. “You got me,” he says, rolling his eyes, trying to quirk his lips up into a smile. Fuck, he has Kaner’s jizz drying all over his face. Shame shoots through him, but this time it makes him feel sick rather than turned on. “Congrats, I officially release you from your status as a mediocre dick pic taker—you’ve graduated Dick Pic Academy magna cum laude,” Jonny tries to joke, even as his insides twist. “So, uh, if you try seducing someone via your dick pics, I’d say you have a pretty good fucking shot now. I mean, I’m assuming you have someone in mind, right?” Jonny tries to keep his voice casual, heart pounding in his chest. Fuck, he shouldn’t have asked that. Why did he ask that? 

Kaner’s silent, so Jonny chances a glance up. His face is weirdly blank, all the cocky smugness gone. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I do.” Jonny looks down.

_Jonathan Toews, you utter moron._

“Cool,” he says, willing his voice not to crack. “Good luck man. Well, not that you really need it.” He doesn’t know why he feels so off-fucking-balance, why his heart is aching in his chest. It—it was just a hookup. Kaner got what he wanted, and Jonny got what he wanted too. It was hot, it was good. 

“In fact, I’m gonna send them a picture right now, now that I’ve gotten the stamp of approval from Professor Dick Pic himself,” Kaner says from above him, and Jonny tries not to flinch. 

_Keep it together, Toews._

“Cool,” he chokes out again, desperately wishing Kaner would just fucking leave so Jonny could wash his face, lock himself in his bedroom and then never leave. 

Jonny’s phone pings with a text. A wave of relief sweeps through him. Thank fuck, a distraction. He shoves his hand in his pocket and fishes out his phone. Picks it up. Opens the message. Blinks a few times. 

“Uh,” he says dumbly, staring. Kaner’s dick is on his screen again—it’s the picture that started Jonny’s descent into insanity, the shot of Kaner with his hand around his cock, Stanley Cup ring perched on his knuckle. Despite the misery inside him, the picture still makes Jonny’s cock give a shameful twitch of appreciation, starting to fill back up after the recent direction of Jonny’s thoughts made him go soft. It’s followed by a text that says “ _Rate me ;)?”_ He looks up, angling his screen towards Kaner. “I think you made a mistake bud,” he says, letting out an awkward laugh. “You sent the picture to me.” 

Jonny waits for Kaner to laugh—it is kind of funny, in a way. Or at least it would be, if Jonny didn’t feel so fucking sad. It’s a mirror of how they got into this situation in the first place—Kaner sending Jonny a dick pic he meant to send someone else. But Kaner doesn’t laugh. Instead, he meets Jonny’s eyes, gaze weirdly intense. “Yeah,” he says simply.

Jonny frowns, mind reeling. “Yeah?” What the fuck does “yeah” mean? Did sucking Kaner’s dick magically melt Jonny’s brain? Because he has no idea why Kaner’s looking at him all steady and calm, like he’s _not_ being the most confusing human on the planet, and it’s actually Jonny who’s the weird one here. “ _Yeah?”_ That doesn’t make any sense, unless—Wait. Hold up. Did Kaner _mean_ to send him the picture? But that would mean— 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Kaner mutters, rolling his eyes. He reaches down to cup both sides of Jonny’s face, tilting his head back as he ducks down so that he’s inches away from Jonny’s lips. “You are so fucking stupid,” Kaner says, eyes sparkling as he strokes his thumbs across Jonny’s jaw, spreading the tacky come into his skin. It’s the last thing Jonny hears before Kaner closes the space between them and presses his lips to Jonny’s.

For the third time that day, Jonny’s brain shorts out.

Kaner kisses him slow and sweet, a stark contrast to the harsh way he fucked Jonny’s mouth minutes before. Jonny can feel himself melt into the gentle strokes of Kaner’s tongue, the soft pressure of his lips, curling his fingers into Kaner’s hair as he eagerly opens his mouth beneath Kaner’s. 

Jonny’s dizzy by the time Kaner draws back—fuck, not only does Kaner have a magic dick, but he must have magic lips, too, because Jonny’s so weak in the knees he thinks they might actually give out on him. Hours of conditioning and being a professional athlete, and all it takes is one kiss from Patrick Kane to end him, huh? Fucking figures. Little by little, his brain finally comes back online. Wait, so Kaner actually—

He looks up. Kaner’s staring back at him soft and amused.“Oh,” Jonny says breathlessly, head still spinning from trying to process. Kaner snorts, pressing a quick kiss to Jonny’s lips. “Yeah, _oh_ ,” he says fondly. “Idiot.” 

“Hey,” Jonny protests, indignant on his own behalf. “How was I supposed to know?” Was Jonny just expected to magically infer that Dick Pic Academy was some sort of weird mating call on Kaner’s end? 

Kaner snorts again. “I’ve essentially been sexting you for weeks, and I showed up at your apartment today and asked you to put your hand on my dick, genius,” he says wryly, and okay, when he says it like _that_ —

Jonny blushes. Okay, so _maybe_ he missed some major signs. Whatever, they all have their weaknesses. “You freaked when you saw my dick pics, though,” Jonny points out. “Like, bolted out of my apartment.”

Kaner nods patiently. “Yup, because they were devastatingly fucking hot and I had no idea what that meant. Also, I was about thirty seconds away from popping a boner in the middle of your apartment.” He shrugs. “But it took me about all of five minutes to figure out that I wanted to bang my best friend, and maybe five more to figure out I wanted you, period.” He grins down at Jonny. “Then it was just a matter of waiting for you to catch up.”

“You’re crazy,” Jonny says, smile breaking across his face despite his best efforts to school his features into a disapproving frown. 

“You like crazy,” Kaner counters, and, well. He has a point. “Now get up here, been dying to get my mouth on your pretty dick for weeks.” And just like that, Jonny goes hot. 

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough.

“Yeah,” Kaner smirks, eyes trailing down to rest on Jonny’s stiffening bulge. 

Although—

“Wait one sec,” Jonny says, picking up his phone again. He navigates to Kaner’s text, stares down at the picture of Kaner’s dick and the accompanying “ _Rate me ;)?”_ He types out “ _A+”_ and hits send. Kaner’s phone goes off. “Go on,” Jonny urges, grinning. 

Kaner raises a brow but complies, looking down at his phone. A smile spreads across his face, and he pumps his fist in the air. “Victory,” he crows. But as he meets Jonny’s eyes and reaches down to squeeze Jonny’s hand, he’s pretty sure Kaner’s not talking about the dick pic. 

Jonny climbs onto the sofa, bitches to Kaner about how much his knees hurt, and shimmies out of his pants. He lets Kaner make it up to him by having him suck Jonny’s brains out through his dick. 

Yeah, Jonny feels pretty damn victorious himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr ](https://tarcanza.tumblr.com/) for updates and also on [Twitter ](https://twitter.com/tarcanza). Come say hi!


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